The situation was odd. Digs didn’t split up like this unless they were large and initial investigation proved a major feature had been uncovered like an entire castle wall or even a village.
If they’d only uncovered a spearhead, Annja couldn’t imagine why the split. Unless artifacts had been sighted in both locations. Still, it would be difficult to get permission from the county for such a large operation.
A jawbone cracked. A male groan was followed by a litany of Irish oaths and promises to do something nasty to the other guy’s mother.
“All right, boys.” Annja stepped close enough to feel the wind of one of their punches. “Fun and games is done. Time to get back to work.”
“You heard the lady,” Daniel growled from his position, bent over one man and clasping him about the waist, while the other twisted his leg to topple the threesome. “Feck!”
The dark-haired man was the first to pop up from the tangle. Hopping from foot to foot, his fists ready for a defensive swing, he smiled a million-dollar blast of white that made Annja do a double take. Relinquishing his fight stance, he smoothed a palm over his muddied abs and gave her the once-over. A preening look. She straightened her shoulders.
The man was not ugly at all. Sometimes her assignments really were easy on the eyes. And she hadn’t bothered to check the mirror after arriving at the airport. Her face must be coated with road dirt like Eric’s.
“A lady stepping up to the fight?” he volleyed at her. “Fancy a tussle with the boys, then?”
“That was a tussle?” She lifted a brow, noting the scrape on his shoulder. “Was the bloodshed worth it? What were you fighting about?”
The other guy, whose lip was cracked and bleeding, struggled from Daniel’s grip, shook himself off and puffed up his chest. He wore a dark blue muscle shirt streaked with dirt. “Ma’am.”
He’d apparently taken a clue from the dark-haired man and didn’t want to be shown up in manners. Annja discreetly rubbed a hand along her cheek. A fine sheen of dirt smudged her fingers.
“It’s Annja,” she offered, holding out a hand to shake, and receiving a slap of mud-caked sweaty palm. “Annja Creed.”
“Annja’s here to do a shoot for her television program,” Daniel offered with a swipe of his palm across his sweaty hair. Retrieving his hat from the mud, he placed it on his head and gave it a pat. A chunk of dirt landed his shoulder.
“Absolutely not,” the militant one spat out.
“Cool your jets, Slater,” the brunette said. “Let’s offer Miss Creed our nicest welcome before you start slinging mud at her.”
“If I’d known the welcoming committee was going to get rough, I’d have worn my armor,” Annja joked.
Then she recalled the nightmarish dream. Fighting in mud? The dream had nothing to do with this situation. Couldn’t have. She offered a hand to the dark-haired man, who shook it and held it a little longer than usual.
“Wesley Pierce,” he offered. “Director of this camp. You going to put us on the television? Be sure to get my good side, will you?” He turned and offered a beaming smile, face coated with mud.
“This is Michael Slater,” Daniel introduced the other, who eased a hand aside his jaw. Annja noticed the empty gun holster strapped under his left arm.
Slater spat to the side and nodded to her. “No filming on location.”
“Nice to meet you both,” she replied. “And don’t worry, it’s just a segment for a show on monsters.”
Slater looked her up and down. His face was streaked with dirt and sweat. Anger vibrated off him like heat waves in the desert. “Monsters?”
She shrugged. “Faeries, actually.”
Slater smirked and disregarded her by turning and slapping the mud from his black khakis.
“You need to sit down,” Annja said to Wesley.
She assumed responsibility since it was sorely lacking, and directed Wesley to a bench outside the dig area that was cordoned off with rope and pitons.
“Wanker,” she heard Slater mutter. Obviously directed at Wesley. He slapped Daniel across the back. “Good to see you, mate.”
She had thought Daniel wasn’t an archaeologist, but he seemed to know most in the camp as he waved to some and slapped palms with others. What did the man do? Spend his days visiting the site? Did he have a job? Doug had mentioned he was some sort of collector. And he obviously liked his cigars.
“A friend of yours?” she asked, bending before Wesley Pierce to inspect his damaged shoulder. He sat on an overturned plastic bucket, knees spread and shaking his arms out at his sides to simmer down.
He shook his head. He was obviously in pain, and she didn’t want to touch him, or make him appear weak in front his friends for needing attention from a woman, but…
“Your lip is cracked.”
“It’ll heal,” he muttered in tones heavily creamed with an Irish accent. “Bloody Slater. Bastard is walking around with a pistol strapped at his side.”
“Is that why you two were fighting? Why the need for weapons at a dig site?”
“Exactly,” he said, and flinched.
One of the women arrived with a small plastic tub of clean water and a towel, which Annja took and dabbed at Wesley’s face. The cut on his shoulder was merely an abrasion.
“Why don’t you tell everyone to clean up their loose,” Wesley said to the woman. “Day’s shot as it is. Might as well head out.” The girl nodded.
“Sorry. Can I do this for you?” Annja asked, holding the towel before him. “Or would you prefer I not?”
“Go ahead. If I get the attention of the prettiest lady on the lot, I’m all for that.” He spat to the side and flashed the bird toward Slater’s retreating back. “No bloody guns!” he shouted.
Slater dismissed his theatrics with a return flick of the bird.
“Not even for security?” she asked.
Security was not uncommon on a dig, Annja knew, but it usually consisted of a hired guard or a camera set up to keep an eye on possible theft. That was if valued artifacts had been discovered, such as gold, jewels or even centuries-old bones.
“You must have found something important,” she tossed out, but Wesley continued to fume, his eyes following Slater’s departure to the other camp, flanked by a couple of his own people.
“Ever since Neville took over financing the dig this kind of shite has been happening on a daily basis. First, it’s splitting up the camps and shoving us over here away from the peat bog, then it’s sending over spies to snoop out what we’ve found. Like they didn’t think to simply ask? And today it’s the gun. Don’t let him intimidate you, though. He’ll try to kick you off his site. He got rid of the BBC yesterday.”
“Really? Then I don’t think our little show stands a chance if the BBC isn’t allowed on-site.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll vouch for you. Besides, you’re much prettier than the BBC reporter. He acted like he had a stick up his arse when Slater accused him of sensationalizing the remains of the dead. Ha!”
Eric clattered up with camera equipment hanging from his hip belt. A mesh backpack dangled over one shoulder, a few cords poking out. He twisted at the waist, the video camera recording the surroundings.
“The dig site located two kilometers west of the R605,” he narrated into his mic. “Go ahead, Annja, take up my narration. You know more about the landscape than I do. Describe some of this stuff. It’s all so cool.”
“Eric